I’m noticing that as I get older, I’m deriving more comfort from reminders of the past. Whether it’s familiar sights, music, foods … they all bring back memories of a time when I was young and had a lifetime ahead of me.
So I guess it was inevitable that I would find myself back in one of the neighbourhoods where I lived before my life as a parent began.
Back in September, I wrote about the area of the city I lived in when I first moved to Toronto. You can find that post here. From that sleazy area, I then moved into one of the most exclusive neighbourhoods in the cities.
Toronto Life magazine once described Rosedale as “a locale of choice for multimillionaire urbanites”.
Not that I was (or am) a multimillionaire … just a wannabe who lucked into an amazing deal of an apartment in an old 3-storey Victorian home.
My roommate – a coworker – and I had the entire 3rd floor attic which had been converted into a very large 2 bedroom apartment. I felt like I had moved into a fairy tale. We were young, extremely ambitious, and knew how to play hard. That 3rd floor walk-up fueled our dreams of the future.
I hadn’t been back in the old ‘hood since I moved out over 30 years ago (it’s frightening to be talking about decades ago when reminiscing), but imagine my surprise when I discovered my former home was gone.
Yes. Gone. Erased …. like a piece of my history never existed.
It was a corner lot on a triangular piece of land and it now appears that the neighbouring home annexed the property and converted it into a parking lot to expand their backyard.
Of course, the apartment building I later moved into was still there. The squat, ugly building somehow managed to survive, while the beautiful Victorian did not.
If there is a lesson in here somewhere, I’m not seeing it yet.